Caitlyn Morcos

by M H Questus

  Arbusto rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone has forgotten the stink you rose when I tried that five years ago.” She sighed into a spoonful of curry. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat vegetarian, Chad.”

  “No, it would just feel like dying,” countered Beningham.

  St. Clair glanced around the table, sipping his whiskey and eating delicately. There was an unusual energy in the room, a tension that was deeper and more dangerous than normal. The dinners had always been about posturing and power, all the way back to the first one Henderson organized twelve years ago. But this year there was more at stake than just losing face or modestly altered budgets.

  Or maybe it was all in his imagination, since this year his risks were so much higher? Could he be projecting those same fears onto the others?

  Eventually, even Beningham pushed himself away from the table with a satisfied sigh. “Magnificent. I may need to hire your chef out from under you again.”

  Sylvia stood as the table was cleared. “And now I invite the guests to join me as we retire and let the officers do their plotting and machinations.”

  New glasses of well-aged alcohols, several older than St. Clair himself, were served before the stewards retreated out of the room, leaving only a handful of Henderson’s aides in uniform standing at a respectable distance from the table.

  “Alphabetically or by standing?” Arbusto asked as she set aside her slender glass of dessert wine. She had asked the same question every year for the last ten, without exception.

  “Alphabetically, of course,” responded Beningham right on cue. St. Clair resisted, barely, the urge to roll his eyes at the theatrical ridiculousness of it.

  “I think not, good man.” St. Clair could hear the unvoiced sigh in Henderson’s response. It may be the only thing the two of them agreed on; did they really have to ask every year? “Standings, as always. The only question is bottom up, or top down?”

  St. Clair took another sip, trying to soothe his nerves. It all hinged on this. “What would you prefer, Henderson?”

  Henderson blinked at St. Clair twice, apparently caught slightly off-guard by his question. “Well… let’s go from the bottom, then. Give all of you a fair shake.”

  St. Clair let out a cheer of victory inside his head, as outwardly he sipped again and nodded his acceptance. “Works for me. You two?” Both Arbusto and Beningham nodded silently.

  With a nod, Henderson gestured towards a waiting aide, who in turn whispered into his earpiece that went to somebody else who finally unlocked the list of graduates. Doing so was a very gray region as far as the law was concerned, not specifically illegal but definitely not condoned. The fact that the council of Senior Marshals had been doing this for over a decade always brought the edge of a smile to St. Clair. Sooner or later somebody in the government would notice, and that would be a complicated day indeed.

  St. Clair’s eyes flicked over the page quickly, the only number of note being in the top left corner: 35 of 35. A short list of graduates this year, which could be a problem.

  “Just to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Henderson said, glancing down at a datapad. “Beta has 49 bidding units, Gamma is at 52, Delta is up to 22, and Alpha has 76.”

  “Stupid population units,” St. Clair sighed, louder than he intended, getting an eye raise from Arbusto and a guffaw from Beningham.

  “Fair is as fair does,” countered Henderson. “Right, let’s get started. Number thirty-five is Jenna Marksley.”

  Arbusto sat up straight, her eyes narrowing as she pushed a strand of her jet-black hair out of her face. “I’ll bid one for her.”

  “Now, now, Iliana, let me finish reading.” Beningham’s voice, as thick as he was, wafted up.

  St. Clair shook his head and Henderson wasn’t even looking at his datapad. Instead, the tall Martian was sipping his greampa, the thick purple liquid clinging sweetly to the edges of the rippled glass he held delicately in one hand.

  “I don’t want her.” St. Clair said after pretending to read the file on the marshal for what he hoped was an appropriate time.

  “Hmmm… okay, one for Beta.” Beningham nodded. Arbusto smiled grimly, flicking the file into her personnel folder with a satisfied gesture of her hand.

  “Oooh, this one looks like a Delta!” Beningham exclaimed moments after the next file appeared.

  St. Clair had to agree; the marshal was built like a tank, bearded and heavy set, and actually grimacing in his picture. “Sure, but is he worth what I’d have to bid for him? Pass.”

  “Fine. Gamma bids one.” Beningham sipped his wine.

  “Beta bids two.”

  “Come now Arbusto, let’s play nice this early on.” Beningham shook his head. “You don’t need this one, do you?”

  “Why not? Excess bidding units are just converted to budgetary increases as you know, and my quadrant came in under budget last year. Don’t need the extra ones.” Her smile was cold and calculating. “So either increase the bid or let’s move on.”

  “Fine. Beta bids three.”

  “Yours.”

  So it continued for the bottom twenty graduates. Henderson remained silent, not even bothering to look at his counterparts on the Senior Council, while St. Clair did his best to pretend to care about the low-ranked graduates. Each of these marshals were worth their weight in antimatter, servicing as deputies for years before attending a full year of psychological screening, mental testing, physical trials, and criminology studies. Even the lowest graduate could shoot straighter, run faster, and fight harder than a dozen soldiers in the Interplanetary Marines and could repair a surface hoverskimmer in subzero temperatures with only a plasma torch and a spool of wire.

  As they reached the top twenty, St. Clair and Henderson both leaned forward. The others were remarkable people compared to the public, but the top of the class were remarkable within the Marshal Service, and that was a statement of some weight.

  “How do you even say that name?” Beningham held the datapad at arm’s length and tilted his head theatrically. He was down to only his last 3 bidding units and had to be picky at this point.

  “Bhekizizwe kaNdaba” Henderson said without hesitation. He tilted his head slightly from side to side. “Good marks. Excellent psych scores. A bit weak in his Repetitive Task grades.”

  St. Clair eyes flicked over the face of the man in the picture. He was smiling without showing teeth, his eyes dark and serious. St. Clair flipped quickly through the 3 pages on the datasheet devoted to Marshal kaNdaba. “Good Piloting scores. Hmmm. Not so good on his Survival and Wilderness testing. You want him?”

  Henderson nodded. “Yes. I think he will make an acceptable addition to Alpha. I will bid five units.”

  St. Clair paused two heartbeats before nodding once.

  By the time they got to the top ten, both Arbusto and Beningham were out of bidding units. They still glanced over the new recruits; if neither Alpha nor Delta wanted a recruit they were allowed to accept on behalf of their respective sectors. Henderson still had 47 bidding units, and St. Clair hadn’t spent one yet.

  Henderson took all of the marshals from tenth to third place without contest. Alpha still had twenty-four bidding units left, and St. Clair ground his teeth in frustration.

  “Number 2… Kristen Smith! Ha, a woman in the number two spot. That hasn’t happened in a while, eh Arbusto?” Beningham jabbed a fat finger into the shoulder of his companion.

  Arbusto’s sharp features scowled at the man in disdain, not looking up from her datapad. “She’s good, too. Glowing performance evaluations, top marks across the board. The fact that there’s somebody who scored better than her is actually quite impressive.” Arbusto’s scowl didn’t let up as she flicked through the pages.

  St. Clair nodded as he read. Smith was indeed an extremely promising graduate. Would she be enough? She was pretty in a stern, no-nonsense sort of way, dark haired and with a wry smile.

  “I wouldn’t say no to her, Henderson.”


  “Nor I, Homer… nor I.” Henderson was still engrossed in the file. “I’ll bid five for her.”

  “I’ll bid fifteen for her.”

  That got a whistle from Arbusto. “Phew! That’s a big bid.”

  “Leaves me with seven units for budget increases, which is more than enough,” St. Clair lied. “And I need one of the top two, no matter what.”

  “Huh.” Henderson nodded at St. Clair’s frank assessment. “Hmmm. That would explain your conservative behaviour thus far today, wouldn’t it?”

  St. Clair shrugged noncommittally. “You know the way this works. I need all the capable people I can get, and since I’m allocated such a small number, they have to be outstanding to have a hope in the Nines of getting the job done.”

  Henderson opened his mouth but St. Clair held up his whiskey glass to the Martian, bowing his head as he did so. “I know why it’s arranged this way, and I’ve already done everything in my power to get the people in charge to change the system, and I know that I’m going to play by the rules until then. Spare us all the speech. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.”

  Henderson had a small smile as he nodded. “Very well. Do you want Smith, or are you willing to gamble on the number 1 spot?”

  St. Clair licked his lips quickly. “The sure thing of Smith, who I’ve seen, or the gamble on a potentially better number 1? That’s tricky.”

  “It is your choice, Homer.” Henderson’s expression gave a quick flicker of something. Possibly amusement? Possibly annoyance? St. Clair couldn’t tell.

  “I’ll go for the number 1. What’s life without a little risk.”

  “So be it. Alpha bids twenty-three for Smith.” Henderson flicked the file on his datapad into his personnel folder swiftly.

  St. Clair found he was holding his breath as the last file loaded.

  There was a pause that lasted a moment, and then a burst of laughter from Beningham.

  “Another woman!”

  “Barely even!” Arbusto gasped. “She’s only 23!”

  Even the normally implacable Henderson was smiling. “That would make her the youngest graduate in the Interplanetary Marshal Service’s history. And possibly either a very good feather in your cap…”

  “Or a huge risk.” St. Clair nodded. He had been warned. He thought he knew what to expect. But the picture of Marshal Morcos was even younger looking than he expected. Mature, granted, for somebody so young, but her grey eyes danced with mischief even on her file.

  “Almost perfect performance. No flags, no warnings, not a single reprimand, and even managed to pass her final!” Arbusto hissed a long breath. “This is almost too good to believe! By the Nines, St. Clair, you could’ve told us you knew how good the first spot was going to be!”

  St. Clair sipped from his whiskey. “Would you have agreed to let me get her if I had?”

  Arbusto opened and shut her mouth several times. “No.”

  “Well then. Delta bids one unit for Morcos.” St. Clair flicked her into his file. Only one marshal, but the top of the class! And he had saved almost all his bidding units for extra budgetary increases!

  He only hoped it would be enough.

  Henderson walked with St. Clair to the doors of his massive estate. St. Clair was pulling on his gloves, the soft leather yielding gently to his tugs.

  “Thank you, Henderson.” St. Clair said softly. “I know you could’ve taken her.”

  “Yes, I could. Both, if I particularly wanted to.” Henderson nodded as he flicked an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder. “It is my right as sector head of Alpha.”

  “Look,” said St. Clair as he tried to swallow down his anger.

  It was Henderson’s turn to raise his hand patiently. “No need, old friend. I know you wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like this if the situation in Delta wasn’t dire.”

  St. Clair nodded and deflated slightly.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Have you read the reports?” St. Clair asked, taking his heavy coat from the servant that offered it to him.

  “I have. They paint a grim picture.”

  “It’s much, much worse than that. We may be on the precipice of a civil war if I can’t get things back under control.” He sighed and shook his head. “I need a figurehead. Somebody who people can associate with the government and who does not good, but exceptional work. And I think Morcos might pull it off. I need her to. Or else we’re all going to pay the price.”

  There was a long moment of silence as the two men stood in the front hallway to the estate. Outside, large raindrops fell from the sky with heavy insistency.

  “Here.” Henderson pulled out his datapad. “Take Smith.”

  “Wha… what?” St. Clair blinked twice.

  “Take Smith.” Henderson flicked the file from his datapad to St. Clair’s.

  St. Clair quickly pulled her into his personnel folder, almost scared that the file would disappear. In all their years, Henderson had never done a gesture so unquestionably generous. “I—”

  “Give me ten units.” Henderson nodded as St. Clair flicked the bidding units over with shaking hands. “That’ll do.”

  “But—”

  “Despite what you might think, Homer, I am not a dispassionate man. And I have read more than just your reports on Delta.” Henderson looked up and to the left, his face momentarily creased with worry. “I can do no more than this, but I suspect taking both of them will have a very positive impact on your efforts. They will drive each other harder than they would with only one of them in Delta. Much like you and I once pushed each other.”

  St. Clair nodded. Two young marshals, so close in performance, would be a power to reckon with, assuming they got along. And if they didn’t, there was always the chance it would work out even better.

  A risk, but everything was a risk at this stage.

  “I have no words, Kyle.”

  “My pleasure, old friend. But please, next time,” Henderson opened the door for St. Clair “do tell me first.”

  St. Clair strode out into the rain, adjusting his cap on his head as he jogged into his waiting hover.

  “Good meeting, sir?” asked Bellegarde as St. Clair pulled himself in out of the pounding rain. “Everything go as planned?”

  St. Clair smiled and nodded. “Precisely to plan, thank you Jules. Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 3: New Marshals in Town

  Morcos tried, and failed, to suppress her smile as she shouldered her duffle bag and strode off the starliner and into Scorpii station. The gateway to Delta sector, Scorpii station was a massive hollowed out asteroid ringed by the constant traffic of merchant vessels, luxury liners, and warships. The starbase was now completely encased by steel, iron, and composite alloys designed to eliminate the slow leak of atmosphere through the original rock of the asteroid, and as such looked something like a gigantic metallic walnut from the outside. The inside was a warren of tunnels, corridors, and buildings that were carved into the rock through the old mining tunnels, with the occasional prefab building assembled in one of the rare open spaces. The rock of the asteroid itself was a dark, earthy brown streaked with greys of every shade.

  Scorpii was the largest spacedock within a dozen jumps in any direction, coupled with extensive recreation, trade, and government facilities, and was the heart and soul of the Interplanetary Government’s presence in Delta. It was home to over a quarter million people, plus almost half that many again in transients heading either deeper towards the untamed edges of human space, or returning back to the denser populated inner system worlds.

  She adjusted her cap, shielding her eyes from the bright overhead lights as her vision adjusted to the sparkling clean interior of the station. The metal deckplates beneath her feet gleamed with carefully polished metal, carefully patterned to be both visually striking and still allow sufficient traction to walk comfortably. The scent of wet paint hung heavy, along with the smells of recirculated air and unwashed travellers disembarking.

>   “By the Nines, where did they find these solar lights?”

  Morcos turned and smiled at the scowling face of her companion. “Come on, Kristen, it’s actually quite nice.” Morcos took a deep breath. “You can barely smell the scrubbers, and look! Real plants!” Morcos laughed as she pointed towards a row of small trees that grew in the middle of the broad central corridor of the station. The academy on Earth was full of vegetation and surrounded by impressive parkland, but Morcos still found the occasional potted tree or overhanging plant in a spacestation somehow more impressive in its way. Wild growing trees wasn’t impressive; it was just nature doing what it did. But taking that same tree, transporting it several hundred light years, and having it thrive with nothing but hard vacuum and almost absolute-zero temperatures existed mere meters from where it was growing? That was impressive.

  Smith’s scowl only deepened, which Morcos thought was remarkable considering how deep it was before.

  “Right. A tree. Whee.” Smith sighed.

  “Look, I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Morcos said, stretching her arms over her head. “But that’s no reason to be so sour about it! This is the frontier! The edge of human space! We’re going to be spearheading the spread of law and order to dozens of worlds that haven’t seen either in centuries!”

  “Well aren’t you just the poster-child for the Marshal Service!” Smith said, but Morcos could hear that there was no venom in her voice. Despite her disappointment at not getting an appointment in Alpha sector, Morcos knew that deep down Smith was as excited by this opportunity as she was. “I just wish that I could shake the feeling that the last handsome man or a good cup of coffee are both ten jumps closer to Earth.”

  Morcos quickly looked her older friend over, trying to judge how she had handled their breakneck trip from Sol to Scorpii. The two of them had barely had a chance to take off their graduation caps before they were being whisked into a taxi, packed into a starliner, and rocketed off to the frontier spacestation. It wasn’t typical, but it wasn’t completely unheard of either. Everyone at the academy had muttered and whispered about the lawless and dangerous Delta sector, and the dire need they had for good marshals. Secretly, Morcos had hoped to end up here.